All Of A Writer That Matters Is

If She Says Goodbye Perhaps Adieu. Adieu - Like Those Old Time Songs She Sang. Always Adieu (and All Songs Say It). If She Too Says It, Or Weeps, I'll Take Her In My Arms, My Lunatic. She's Mad But Mine, Mine. What Will I Care For Gods Or Devils Or For Fate Itself. If She Smiles Or Weeps Or Both. For Me.

The Perpetual Hunger To Be Beautiful And That Thirst To Be Loved Which Is The Real Curse Of Eve.

I Would Never Be Part Of Anything. I Would Never Really Belong Anywhere, And I Knew It, And All My Life Would Be The Same, Trying To Belong, And Failing. Always Something Would Go Wrong. I Am A Stranger And I Always Will Be, And After All I Didn’t Really Care.

Have All Beautiful Things Sad Destinies?

I Have Tried," I Said, "but He Does Not Believe Me. It Is Too Late For That Now" (it Is Always Too Late For Truth, I Thought).